by Maria Luis
He catches my wrist. Flattens my palm over the ink like he hopes that I’ll feel the words in my soul just as he feels them in his. “‘Two ravens flew from Odin’s shoulders,’” he says, “‘Huginn to the hanged and Muninn to the slain.’”
“You see yourself as the dispatcher of death? Like the ravens Odin sent to the corpses?”
Damien’s blue eyes are fathomless, ancient. Haunted. “No, love, I am Death.”
And then, before I even have the chance to digest the implication of that statement or the endearment that tripped off his tongue, he brings his mouth back to mine in a kiss that leaves me breathless and squirming on the bed.
He pins my wrists above my head and lowers himself into the cradle of my hips. I arch my spine, an invitation for him to bring me closer, if he wants, and he takes the offering with a throaty groan. One palm slips beneath me, to the small of my back, before sweeping around my waist to press flush against my stomach. Careful to avoid my sensitive skin, he fists the fabric of my shirt and bares my breasts to his hungry gaze.
“Jesus, you’re beautiful to me.” Blue eyes hooded, those soft lips of his swollen. He meets my stare, studying me with that quiet, intense way of his, and then he drops his head and slicks his tongue over my nipple.
The first touch is heaven, the second downright electric.
By the time he’s alternating between swirling his tongue and flicking at the hardened bud, I’m coming off the bed with desperate moans that he quiets with a hand over my mouth and a wicked glint in his eye.
Yes. Yes.
His other palm finds my hip, his fingers gripping me tight. And then he tilts his hips against mine in a slow, sensual grind that leaves me shattered and panting. My joggers are thin, his denim trousers practically plastered to his erection, and the friction—
I cry out against the prison of his hand.
Then, framing his face, I drag him back up so that I can feast on his mouth. I bite his bottom lip and sweep my tongue over the flesh to ease the sting. I beg for entry with a whimper and he parts his lips on command, letting me steal my way inside. The scruff on his jaw abrades my skin but I can’t find it in myself to back away. And all the while, he nudges my right leg from his waist and plants it flat on the mattress, at a ninety-degree angle, so that when I pull back for air and glance down, there’s no missing the way he rocks against my core with every pump of his hips. Muscles straining, ink rippling.
He’s driving me to the brink of insanity, and I feel worshipped.
“Make me yours,” I pant against his mouth.
His breath catches, his hips ceasing all movement. Slowly, he eases his forehead against mine. “A dangerous wish.”
“I’m choosing to live.” Leaning up on one elbow, I tug on his earlobe with my teeth. “Escape into the sunshine with me, Damien. Just for a little bit.”
His only answer is to crash his mouth down over mine.
He swallows my cry of surprise and he soothes my restless whimpers with delicious strokes of his tongue. Then, with his hands gripping my upper arms, he tugs me with him when he sits up. He feeds me a frantic kiss before stripping off his trousers and then gives me another that’s no less all-consuming after he pulls my joggers and knickers down the length of my legs.
Naked, he sits on the edge of the bed with his feet planted on the floor. Lets his knees fall open like he’s leaving space for me to crawl between them. Voice low, he orders, “Straddle me.”
Not yet.
This bubble we’ve created around ourselves will pop soon. Someone is hunting Margaret and someone else is still stalking Damien and his brothers, and once this moment ends, I fear we’ll be forced right back into the harsh-limned light of reality. I’m not ready to return to a Britain on the brink of war; I’m not ready to let go of this small corner of the world where wishes come true and we feed the beast of hope instead of slaughtering it for putting us at risk.
Needing to make these seconds last the length of forever, I dip my chin. “Let me look at you first. Let me see you.”
It’s more than I thought to have after days where darkness swallowed me whole.
Crawling off the bed, I back up and take him in. The hair-dusted calves and the thick, muscular thighs. The heavy cock that bobs against his ripped stomach and the ink scrawled in Old Norse, and I must be overtly ogling him because Damien grips the base of his hard-on with a low groan.
“Go ahead,” I murmur, my mouth dry.
“Jesus, Rowena.”
I shake my head, sending floaters scattering.
And I watch, unable to look away, as he skims his big hand up the length of his cock. The vein in his throat visibly throbs, the color in his cheeks turning a muted pink that has nothing to do with hesitation and everything to do with lust, with want. He teases me with a short pump at the crown. Drags his palm over the head before moving down to circle the root.
I touch my tongue to my bottom lip.
A beat later, his knuckles whiten with tension when he plants his free hand down on the mattress.
Muscles ripple under his inked skin as he physically sinks into his grip, his thighs spreading wider, his shoulders appearing that much broader when he eases into his tight fist, over and over again. His flame-blue eyes are fixed on my face. I sense his anticipation of what’s to come, feel his urgency for me in every thrust that he gives himself. He’s a vision. Delicious. Wicked. Dark hair falls over his forehead and his lids lower to half-mast. Then his head tips back, his throat working with a deep groan, and the hand on his cock squeezes the crown and sinks back down a little rougher with every pass.
My mouth waters.
Heart races.
“I need you,” he rasps, fisting the sheets in one hand as his hips begin to pump hard and fast into his hand. “Rowena, I need you.”
I don’t make him wait.
He grasps my hips the second that I’m within reach and he brings me in, so that the mattress dips with the pressure of my knees on either side of his hips. Down past the raven and skull, his abdominal muscles clench with restraint as he palms my spread thighs. Bruised hands against unmarred legs. Supple flesh that pinkens when he grips me hard and begs for my mouth.
I say yes with my lips.
Say yes with my body, too, as I reach down to position his cock against my entrance. We’re doing it again—the reckless, wanton thing—but neither of us says no as I lower myself down on top of him. Fast and hard until his palms go to my arse and he stills all downward movement.
My eyes fly to his. “I thought—”
“Let me bring you to the sun.” His lips curl to one side, as if he enjoys the thought of me bathing in warm sunlight. “A wish for a wish, Rowena. You gave me mine and I’ll be damned if I don’t give you yours.”
I kiss him again, open-mouthed and raw, and my core muscles clench when I feel him lift me until only the crown of his cock remains inside. He thrusts upward, lifting his hips, then brings me down a little more.
Oh, my God.
I try to squirm, to grind my hips down, but he doesn’t let me take control.
Pulling back with a gasp, I meet his gaze, only to find blue already waiting for me. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, the pink flesh turning white under the pressure. One glance down reveals the strain in his arm muscles, the control he’s exerting to set the slow, anguished pace, to make it last and make it good. He lowers me again, and I clutch his shoulders at the overwhelming sensation of him stretching me.
“My left,” he grits out, “mark me on my left.”
There’s something he’s not telling me, something that briefly tugs his gaze away from mine as he utters the request, but I give it to him anyway. I press my hand flat on his right pectoral muscle while raking my nails down his left shoulder. He groans, low and throaty, and kicks his chin back as he drives his cock deep inside me in a single thrust.
A cry rips from my lips.
My head falls back on my shoulders.
Leaning forward, he brus
hes his mouth over my throat before dropping his head to tease my nipple with his teeth. Gooseflesh erupts over my skin. The rhythmic tug of his mouth, the relentless thrusts of his cock, the hot skin beneath my hands that trembles like he’s desperate to hold on . . . I’m coming apart at the seams and there’ll be nothing to stitch back together when he’s through with me.
“Damien,” I whisper raggedly, “this is . . . this is—”
His blue eyes lift to mine. “It’s living,” he growls, “and happiness, and fucking hell, Rowena, I don’t care if it’s madness too. I want it and I want you, and God help us both, but I’m going have you no matter what.”
Tears sting my eyes, blurring his face. Shadows dance in the periphery, a silent reminder that danger always lurks around the corner, just waiting to strike in a moment of vulnerability. And then I give all of myself over to the moment.
To him.
I take each hard thrust as if it’s my due; I fight his hold on my hips with tiny circles that make him breathe hard through his nose; and I drag my mouth over his, swallowing those pants of his to claim them as my own. He moves inside me, fucking me hard, without mercy, and I feel myself tighten around him.
My fingers dig into his left shoulder. “I’m going to come. Damien, oh, God.”
His mouth finds mine while he brings one hand between us to rub my clit. “Let go,” he rasps, “let go and I’ll catch you.”
I don’t have the chance to return the sentiment because he angles his hips just right and I splinter above him. My legs tremble in his grip, my heart teeters in my chest. It’s too soon. It’s too soon to care to beg for more, but we’re bound in a way that bears no reason or understanding. He drags me down on top of his cock, his eyes squeezing shut and his jaw clenching tight. He’s lost to the moment, to the sensation of living, and when he comes, he yanks himself free of me and spills onto my thigh at the very last second.
His shoulders heave with hard breaths.
His fingers knead my thighs.
And then, so quietly that I nearly miss the words: “I would chase you to the ends of the earth, Rowena. I would chase you forever if I could.”
32
Damien
“Where do you think you’re going, Priest?”
Déjà vu.
They’re the same words I’ve heard a thousand times over in the last seven months but come from an entirely different person.
Slowing my stride, I glance back over my shoulder to find Hugh Coney watching me from Holly Village’s main staircase. He sits on the third lowest rung, his wrists propped on his bent knees. “Did you hear me?” he demands. “I asked you where you’re going.”
He and Jude are two peas in a pod, proper bosom buddies.
Hooking my thumb under the duffel bag’s strap, I turn around. “Found your bollocks already, Coney?” I offer a slow, lethal smile that would send a smarter man running. “Because I distinctly remember you almost pissing yourself the other night.”
Since Hugh doesn’t have a lick of sense, he responds exactly as I knew he would: by launching to his feet and brandishing a knife like he’s some swashbuckler out of a pirate film. Amused, I lower my gaze to the blade he’s jabbing in my direction. It’s a test of self-restraint that I don’t do us both a favor by breaking his wrist and letting the knife clatter to the floor. Instead I raise my brows and deadpan, “Didn’t your mum ever teach you not to play with pointy objects as a lad?”
Hugh’s nostrils flare. “You’re our prisoner, Priest. You don’t get to just”—he slashes the knife in a wide arc—“leave whenever you want to. It’s not how this works.”
No, Hugh. It’s not how this works at all.
Moving swiftly, my right hand bumps the base of his wrist and he instinctively releases the knife. I catch the base as it sails upward into the air then sidestep his swinging fist by locking my forearm over his throat. I press my cheek to his, so that he’s forced to watch sunlight glint off the blade as I twirl it in front of his face. “Hugh,” I hum, my voice dark in his ear, “we’ve been here before, haven’t we, mate?”
He struggles in my arms. Brings his foot down on my mine.
The bastard never learns.
Thrusting my leg between his, I hook my left calf around his shin and send his body sprawling forward. So close to the blade, so close to being rendered permanently mute. Lucky for him, it’s my first day at turning over a new leaf. Not the villain, not the hero either. Just . . . Damien Godwin, for better or worse.
With my track record, I’m banking on the latter.
A memory of vivid violet warms my chest when I drawl, “See, Coney. I have a list of shit to get done today and getting rid of your dead body isn’t one of them. In other words, you’re wasting my time.”
His shoes squeal against the wood when he tries to claw out of my chokehold. “It’s wrong,” he snarls. “You coming here, thinking that you can do as you want. Rowan can say whatever she wants but the rest of us know better. We aren’t the ones fucking you all over this bloody house!”
The familiar bite of anger nips at my heels.
Find mercy, Godwin. Be merciful.
“Do you know what your problem is?” Even mercy has its limits, and I allow the knife to touch his throat in warning. “You’ve never had to live in a world that wants you dead. If you did then you’d understand that adjustment is how you survive.”
Tucking the blade against my forearm, I grab a fistful of his jumper and shove him away.
He stumbles forward, barely catching himself before going knees-down to the ground. When he turns on me, fury glitters in his dark eyes. “I’ve survived,” he snaps, jerking on his shirt. “I’ve adjusted.”
“Then don’t bite the hand that feeds you or you’ll be out on your ass.” Spinning the base of the knife on my finger, I let a wreath of sunlight dance over the tip. “Stay out of my way, Coney, and I’ll gladly stay out of yours.”
I’m almost to freedom when he shouts, “Don’t you think I know about the bounty on your head? I could ring it in, Priest. One conversation with the Met and you’d be behind bars within an hour. How smug do you think you’ll be when your knob isn’t being used for the next thirty years?”
The problem with people like Hugh Coney is that they push, and they push, and they push. And then, when they’re dangling in the air with their feet kicking helplessly, they wonder how in the world fate could be so cruel.
Tipping my head back, I close my eyes.
Let the duffel drop from my shoulder to the floor.
For worse it is then.
Hugh’s gaze is panicked when he’s shoved clear against the wall, my hand fisting the front of his jumper to hold him off the floor. His legs squirm and his arms push, and I thrust my face close to his when I growl, “Adjust or die. That’s your last warning.” Then I drill the knife into the wall a centimeter away from his right ear. Its steel base audibly vibrates upon impact.
Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and stride across the entrance hall, grabbing the duffel off the floor as I pass it. The fact that Coney was waiting for me is a problem for later today when I’m not short on time.
Only, when I step out into the sunshine and spot the woman leaning against the passenger side door of my car, I find myself faltering for an entirely different reason.
I slept beside a woman for the first time in my life last night.
My arm tucked around her waist, her back nestled against my bare chest, our legs intertwined. And while I didn’t allow sleep to claim me, breathing in Rowena’s scent throughout the night was the closest I’ve come to experiencing soul-deep peace. Even now, I’m drawn to her.
At my side, my fingers curl into a tight fist of restraint.
Better that than storming across the drive and slamming my mouth down on hers, mercy be damned.
“Going somewhere?” she calls, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the early morning sun. “Or is it that you’ve had enough of me already?”
The tone of her voice, that cunning smile . . . The she-wolf has come out to play.
When I reach her side, I drop my duffel to the pavement and bring my arms down on either side of her, parking my hands on the car. “Have you a confession to make?” I lower my face to hers, noting that she’s done something to conceal the healing skin on her temple and jaw. And her lips . . . Jesus, she’s painted them red. “Or is there a reason you’ve ditched the joggers I tore off you an hour ago for a skirt?”
Violet eyes sear mine just before she catches my mouth with her own. Then, against my lips, she murmurs, “You aren’t the only one with secrets, Godwin.” From her cleavage, she produces a tiny, handheld camera. “You made the mistake of thinking that we don’t watch our prisoners very, very closely here at Holly Village.”
I eye the camera with disdain. “Is this payback for the tracker?”
“It’s my way of ensuring that I’m not shoved aside in helping Margaret stay alive.” Reaching for my hand, she closes my fingers over the palm-sized device. “So, why are we heading to Broadmoor Hospital this morning?”
Fucking hell.
“We,” I grunt, “are not going anywhere.”
When I step to the right, she follows swiftly and plants herself directly in front of me. Her gaze is sharp, her red mouth still curled in that smile that makes me want to strip her naked and fuck her ten ways from Sunday. “Don’t worry, Damien, I’m willing to overlook your mistake in thinking that I’ll somehow hold you back from whatever asinine plan had you bent over your laptop at the crack of dawn.”
Asinine plan?
Brows lowering, I scowl at her. “I’m making a mistake, am I?”
“Men have a habit of complicating matters,” she says, nodding toward the camera as if to prove her point. “Based on what I read over your shoulder this morning, you’re timing your arrival at Broadmoor with its daily security check at ten-sharp. I’m going to guess, although I could be wrong, of course, that you’re hoping to cut the alarm without anyone realizing that you’ve snuck yourself in. But are you taking documents? Seeing a patient? So many choices. Anyway, how did I do? On the nose?”